


A Negotiated Surrender

by Tammany



Series: Diplomacy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, M/M, Mild Kink, Smut, Spanking, thrashing., voluntary mild pain kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 15:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11877531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: The only drawback I can see to all of your comments is you lead me to answer the implied questions. Like--how does it actually work between the two, given Mycroft's fears and insecurities and the logical necessities of communication.This one is explicit, kinkier than my norms, and tied to insecure/vulnerable Mycroft in the first story of this series (now titled "Diplomacy." I have no idea if I will ever write another. But they go together, so...there it is.) How does someone bound by inarticulate longing and the unsexy aspects of micromanaging sex overcome all that and get what he wants? Good thing Mycroft's got experience in negotiating sensitive arrangements. Good thing Greg's a street cop who can interpret meaningful silences.





	A Negotiated Surrender

Mycroft’s face was pressed hard against the rough bark of a maple sycamore. Greg Lestrade pressed close against his back. The other man’s cock rocked against Mycroft’s bum; one hand was down Mycroft’s trousers and pants, cupping his arse, the other gripped his cock firm, through the fabric of his clothing.

Mycroft had longed for this. Ached for it. Wept for it, though he would never admit it.

The other man was rock steady behind him, in control, victorious. In command.

At least, Mycroft fretted, he was for now. It was in the minutes and hours that followed that things could go to bloody hell. Would go to bloody hell if Mycroft could not figure out how to perform his own part of the dance.

“Surrender,” his conscious mind muttered in anguished desire. “For the love of God, idiot, surrender. Is that so hard?”

His deep subconscious, educated by years of his social failures and his analytical successes, snapped back, “Yes. It is that hard.”

It was that hard. If this was to work, he needed to get what he wanted. Yes, ideally Greg would also be rewarded with his own desired outcome. But Mycroft knew that “surrender” could not equal “silence” or he might as well give up on any fine tuning aimed at providing for his own longings.

And that, of course, was the problem. He wanted to surrender. He wanted to submit to the strength and confidence embodied in the man who touched him, pinned him firm to the tree trunk, the certain authority of the hands claiming his body. The fearless advances of the mouth lipping the skin of his neck. He wanted to be taken. He wanted to give way. He wanted…

A million unwelcome variants of that fantasy flashed through his mind, each highlighting the exact nature of his dreams.

He wanted to be spanked, because he was a naughty boy and Lestrade needed to teach him. But he didn’t want to be flogged, or horse-whipped, or God help him paddled with a whiffle-ball paddle, which was entirely outside the dignity of his fantasy. He wanted to be ordered to strip—but not humiliated for his plain, awkward, middle-aged body when he did so. He wanted to be given firm directions—preferably directions to do just what he liked doing.

He wasn’t a stupid man, nor was he so inexperienced as to think mute hope was going to see him through. He’d tried mute hope…and ended up hurt and frightened and torn in places he dared not show the college infirmary nurse. He’d tried discussion, too, and ended up beaten, once, by a bastard convinced that his job was to show Mycroft “his place” in the bedroom. Other times he’d merely ended up bored and despondent, all sense of spontaneity gone, all feeling his partner wanted him, or anything he liked driven away by the bargaining process beforehand. He’d felt sexier and more beloved in high-risk negotiations with Swiss bankers.

Actually, he thought, ruefully, he’d felt quite a lot sexier and more beloved. He was good at negotiation. He had saved the UK’s bacon more than once. He was a skilled analyst, and a skilled mediator. He’d scripted successful conclusions for international trade agreements, hostage exchanges, and wars.

Just not sex.

“Come back, Holmes.” Greg’s voice was an amused rumble. “Wakey-wakey. Like my lovers alert and aware, me.”

Mycroft squirmed, embarrassed to realize he’d lost his erection, and left the zone of hot desire as he’d considered the problem facing him. Unwilling to humiliate himself still further, he shifted topic slightly. “Where are we going? Did we decide? Yours or mine?”

He didn’t want either. He wanted to be insecure, off his own home turf—so not his elegant flat on Pall Mall. But he’d seen surveillance shots of the interior of Lestrade’s flat. It was clean enough for a bachelor, and furnished tastefully enough, but it was the sort of boring domicile you’d expect from a busy policeman with a limited budget and no one to impress. Mycroft suspected the carpets smelled slightly of dust and mildew and prior tenants’ pets. He was equally sure the bed was a double at best, and the duvet a cheap fiber-filled item in a drab print—something that could be found in a roadside motel.

Lestrade hesitated. “Don’t know. Got an opinion?”

Mycroft knew what he’d like. He was fairly sure what he would like didn’t exist. A five-star hotel with world-class security, perfect privacy, and an amazing array of sex toys? So they could determine what they both liked?

“Er…no?”

Lestrade made a forlorn, grumbling sound. “Deserve better than my place, if you want the truth,” he admitted. “And I don’t have much—excitement—to offer there.”

If this were work, Mycroft thought, he’d know what to do. He’d have Anthea play around for a few minutes on her little smart phone, and when she was done he’d order her to call in reservations under one of his classified identities. The he’d order her to forget she knew anything about it—and he’d relax, knowing she would never give him away. He was sure she’d find what he wasn’t even sure existed.

“Hotel?” he risked saying, then, reluctantly, pushed away from the tree trunk. The ridges of the bark were beginning to hurt and itch, leaving welts.

Greg made an unhappy noise. “Pay by the hour down around Whitechapel Road? At least no one would ever be looking for _you_ there.”

This was ridiculous, Mycroft thought. He scowled. “Give me a minute.” He heard his voice going crisp and businesslike, and regretted it—but, damn it, Anthea was a convenience, not a necessity. Especially where his sex life was concerned! He slipped his own smart phone from his pocket, woke up the internet connection, logged into the high-security data banks of his own division, and began researching the sex and hospitality trade in London—never before a concern of his, but a topic of sufficient interest to other human beings to justify an extensive amount of information had been accumulated.

“There’s a rather spiffing place by the Thames,” he said, considering. “Here—what do you think?” He held out the phone, showing the photo on its glowing screen. “Highest level of privacy ratings, recommendations from, er…professionals, including that sleek she-cat Sherlock refers to as ‘The Woman.’ World class security.” He didn’t pull up the file that suggested they had several rooms with dungeons and toy chests. He’d just put in the request when he reserved, he thought.

“Can’t afford it,” Greg said, reluctantly.

“Don’t be difficult,” Mycroft snapped. “Do me the grace of letting me put it on my own card. It’s not like I’m going to be holding it over you all night.”

Silence fell between them, and suddenly the night was warmer—more alive.

“Ngg.”

Mycroft found himself smiling into Greg’s eyes. “Yes. Nggg. Eloquently put. I assure you, I seek only to provide you with a setting worthy of your…mastery.”

Greg’s eyes darkened further—impressive in the allee of trees, under the street lights. “Nggg.”

“Do you like my choice?”

Greg looked back at the picture. An ornate brass bed ideal for light bondage and athletic positions was prominently featured. “I…think I could accept that. What a good boy you are.”

“I doubt that,” Mycroft murmured, taking the phone back and opening up a secure, untraceable line to the hotel. “Sherlock will tell you I’m rubbish. My parents would assure you likewise. As for Anthea…” he chuckled, thinking of Anthea. He’d never brought up his own sexual desires with her. But he knew quite a bit about her own tolerances. He’d researched them before hiring her. “I suspect she’d be willing to say I was a very naughty boy indeed. She might even have suggestions about what you ought to do about it, now I’m your responsibility.”

He waited, breath bated as Greg processed both words and inflection. He held back the little smile that tried to rise when the penny dropped. Good. His partner was not unwilling to explore what his role was in disciplining “naughty Mycroft.”

A quick jolt of optimism rose in his breast. This might work!

This really might work.

“Should I call my car, or should we take a taxi?” he asked.

“Which is safer for you?”

“In this context? The taxi. No one will look twice at me, and it won’t go on record with the department.”

“Taxi, then.”

When the call was made, and a nearby street corner given, Mycroft snapped the phone shut and tucked it into his pocket. He glanced over at Greg, suddenly shy again. “I hope that wasn’t too heavy-handed?”

Greg studied him, eyes narrowing. After a moment he said, “No. I don’t think I’d be interested you if it meant you giving up your competence.”

Mycroft ducked his head, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. It got difficult from here on in. This part wasn’t practical, ordinary good sense. It was different.

“I’m afraid my public persona isn’t reflected in my private interactions. I’m rather wet. Worse, I have no ambition to change that much.”

He didn’t want to be capable and forceful and devious and sly in the bedroom. He wanted to be desired by a masterful man, claimed by someone who would convey hunger and authority. He wanted to be taken…and to play games that showed that possessive authority dramatically…just not too dramatically.

“I’m…” He faltered, then tried again. “I am…”

“Submissive” was the wrong word. It meant too much to too many people. So, too, did “bottom.” He grimaced, and said, warily, “I quite like a man who leads. I’ll follow. In moderation.”

Was that clear enough?

Greg hummed under his breath. He slipped an arm around Mycroft’s waist, and guided them both on the path to the corner the taxi was to meet them. “I see,” he said, pulling the other man closer with a firm arm. “Spend enough of your time taking charge, I daresay.”

“Quite,” Mycroft murmured, drinking in the scent of cigarettes and soap and sweat and cologne.

“So.” Greg cleared his throat, sounding suddenly husky. “A naughty boy who needs to be guided, then?”

“Sometimes.”

“Need punishment?”

“Punishment. Penance. Nothing…extreme. Nothing too dramatic.” Mycroft’s heart thundered. This was the thin edge. Much beyond this and they’d go too far, become too explicit. “Play it by ear.” He was begging. He knew he was begging. But, then, perhaps begging was a good start…

Greg didn’t comment, but his fingers tightened at Mycroft’s waist, and he didn’t let go.

They said nothing on the ride to the hotel. Mycroft signed in, using his own card and an ID he kept in reserve, for when he had to go into deep cover. He was there as John Bixby. Lestrade jotted his own name as “Mr. Dave Linden.”

The ride up the elevator was silent.

The suite occupied half the fifteenth floor. Mycroft swiped the room key through the reader, caught the lever handle, and let them both in.

“Sweet,” Greg said, in a tone that suggested he was attempting understatement.

It was sweet. A sitting room. A bedroom. A bath of amazing proportions with luxury fittings. A….playroom.

“Shall we explore?” Mycroft asked, barely able to force his voice out, his tension had shot up so high.

“Mmm.” Greg drifted behind Mycroft—the guest following the lead of his host and benefactor.

Not what Mycroft had wanted. He eased back, ushering the other man to examine the toy box.

Greg whistled under his breath. “Everything in sterile covers.”

“What we use, we can take away with us. No one has to worry it’s been…used…before.”

“I can understand that.”

He picked up a small, neat paddle. Put it back. Considered a set of silken shackles. Quirked an odd look at a painful spider gag. He held it up, arching an eyebrow at Mycroft. “Hot or cold?”

Mycroft gave a sudden, nervous laugh. “I…think usually cold? And you?”

Greg considered, face a picture of confusion. “Not sure. Not my first pick, that’s sure.”

“But?”

He shrugged, and blushed crimson. “Thought it ice cold—until I thought of you kneeling between my feet as I fed my cock into it, and you helpless to stop me,” he admitted, uneasily. “Never thought I’d like that sort of thing.”

Mycroft gulped, the fantasy suddenly more appealing than it had been. “If it happened, I’d be willing” he said, softly. “It wouldn’t be rape. Just the fantasy of being—in charge. Giving orders.” He swallowed. “Surrendering to orders.”

Greg nodded, not meeting Mycroft’s eyes. “How do you say your safe word when you’re in that thing?” he asked, trying to sound practical.

“I daresay we work something else out,” Mycroft said. “Grunt three times.”

Greg gave a sudden, sharp shout of laughter. “Twice on the pipe means the answer is no,” he warbled.

Even Mycroft recognized the song. Cultural illiteracy was not in his best interests. “Rather,” he said. “I think the safe word is important. But—perhaps a ‘danger word’ would be even better? Something to say I’m willing to go where you’re leading—maybe even want you to go further with it?”

Greg nodded. “Sin is your safety word. What’s your ‘more danger, please’ word?”

He couldn’t think. A safe word—it had to stand out. It didn’t matter if it brought things to a screeching halt—that was the idea. If you used your safe word, things were going wrong. What to say when things were going right, and you didn’t want to disrupt it—but did want to suggest maybe it could be a bit more right still?

“Want?” The word jolted out of him. He considered it, shaken by his own fear. “Yes,” he said, testing it. “Want. I want. And maybe don’t want is a softer safe word. And want-very-much…” he trailed off.

They were frozen together, intimidated by the possibilities. Greg squatted by the toy box, still holding the spider gag they’d both mostly rejected—mostly. Not entirely. In trays and racks, clean and shining, sat more toys. Handcuffs. Duct tape. Things Mycroft knew he would not want. Things he feared saying he did want.

Greg put down the spider gag. He picked up a neatly packaged, sterile anal plug in a shiny sealed plastic envelope. “It’s a vibrator,” he said. “Seems ready for use.” It rested in the palm of his hand, large enough to be intimidating, small enough to be plausible—unlike a terrifying big dildo in a tray of its own, glowing neon green with sullen purple veins showing through the clear silicone.

Mycroft looked at the plug and swallowed hard. “I…may want. Later?” He wasn’t sure if later was what he wanted to say, though.

He wanted not to be the one who had to keep making the choices. He wanted Greg to move. To demand something. To _take_ something.

“Maybe if I pour us some scotch,” he said, and turned away, heading for the sitting room and the wet bar by the big window that looked over the city and the river.

Once there he poured two glasses of a very decent blended malt. He shot back his glass fast and hard, feeling his nerves screaming their desperation. He’d negotiated and negotiated. He could negotiate no more—and it would ruin everything to say so. Some things just didn’t work if you had to ask, had to tell, had to make things explicit, had to micromanage. How could he surrender if Greg refused to conquer, damn it?

Greg came to lean in the door of the sitting room. He’d dimmed the lights of the play room until they formed only a dim halo behind him. He was a shadow in the faint light.

“Your drink is waiting,” Mycroft said, aware his voice was sharp and querulous.

“On the rocks or straight up?”

“Straight up,” Mycroft said. “I can always add ice.”

“No. Just—there’s no rush. Straight up will wait for me.” He didn’t move. Instead he said, voice suddenly shifting, “So. Anthea things you’re a bad boy, does she?”

Mycroft thought he’d weep in relief. “Quite. Too full of myself by far, according to her.”

“I daresay she’s right,” Greg said. His voice had become stern and controlled. “Nervy bastard, you are. All tight wired and testy. Time you let go a bit.” Still standing in the doorway, he crossed his arms, head cocked, hip-shot as his shoulder took his weight. “That jacket ought to come off. And the tie.”

Mycroft took one last, fast hit of the second glass of scotch, and turned. He was all goosebumps. He slipped off his jacket and folded it neatly, then set it down on the clean surface of the bar. His fingers rose to his tie, tugging it free of the basic full-Windsor knot he used to fill up space at the base of his wide neck, trying to look in proportion rather than like a long-necked impala. He coiled the silk around his hand and set it beside his jacket.

“Nice,” Lestrade said. “But just a start. Come out from behind there, Mike.”

Mycroft considered arguing his name was not Mike. He considered saving the objection for sometime he wanted to make trouble. He also considered the tiny thrill he got being reduced to a nickname—a nickname from childhood. He let it go. He could always change his mind later. He stepped out from behind the bar and stood in the sweeping pool of soft light from the nighttime city beyond. “Like this?”

“Just like that,” Greg husked. “That’s right. That’s good. Le’ me see what I’m getting.” He didn’t move. He just looked—the penetrating, observant look of a man who made his living as a professional detective. Mycroft was sure he missed nothing—not the faint, nervous shift in stance as he shifted his weight between his feet, or the reflexive grasp and flex of his fingers as he made fists and released them, nerves pinging and twanging with uncertainty and embarrassment.

“I’m not much to look at,” he said, hesitant.

“Long drink of water, you,” Greg said, neither agreeing or disagreeing. “Bet your legs go on forever.”

They did. Mycroft had never quite liked the look of them—too long and lean, like an overbred thoroughbred race horse, almost grotesquely designed for length and nothing else. He didn’t answer.

“Waistcoat,” Greg said. “Waist coat and shirt…and braces, if you’re wearing them.”

He was. His fingers shook as he removed the watch and chain in his weskit, transferring them safely to the watch pocket for the time being. He added his cufflinks. He removed the braces—sensible navy blue to go with the night’s suit. He took off the sleeve garters. He unbuttoned his shirt, and drew it off. He piled all the clothes neatly on the floor by his feet.

“Nice,” Greg said, voice simple and uninflected. Almost meditative in its dispassion. “Very nice. Lookit you, there in the light. Skin like skim milk, you’re so fair. Pretty sure you’re auburn under that brown wash you use to tone it down to dark chestnut. Am I right?”

“Titian,” Mycroft admitted, ruefully. “It’s loud and draws too much attention to me.”

“Someday I’d like to see it natural. Maybe a long sabbatical would give it time to grow out.”

The words were wonderful and terrifying. Possessive. Greg was claiming Mycroft’s time—his future. His schedule. No one touched Mycroft’s schedule but Anthea….and only as his proxy. Even the Prime Minster was forced to bow down to Mycroft’s schedule and its sacrosanct, untouchable purity. Even the Queen herself knew that if Mycroft said, “I’m so sorry, your Majesty, but I’m afraid I’m booked that weekend,” that she would not be seeing him at Balmoral.

“Maybe,” he said, not sure if he was thrilled or horrified—but certain he wanted to avoid promises he might not want to keep.

“I think probably,” Greg said, with amiable conviction. “Turn around.”

Mycroft licked his lips and turned, then turned his head to speak over his shoulder. “Like the view?”

“Nice bum,” Greg said. Then Mycroft heard feet moving softly over the thick carpet. Arms slipped around his waist and Greg pulled him close, rubbing his face on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft felt the prickly stubble of five o’clock shadow along Greg’s jaw, and shuddered with the feeling.

He liked men. He liked men who felt like men, sounded like men. That stubble—it was erotic dynamite. He gave a soft, explosive grunt, and shivered in Lestrade’s arms.

Lestrade said nothing. His hands moved to Mycroft’s belt, unfastening the buckle and sliding it out of the belt loops. “I’ll keep that,” he said. Then one hand cupped Mycroft’s bum, and caressed him. “That, too. Mine, yeah?”

The silence fell between them. This was the moment. This was the drop into the abyss.

“If you…want,” Mycroft husked at last.

“Mine,” Greg said again, this time smug with it. He stepped away. “I’m going to go change,” he said. “Take your time. Get your shoes off, and those trousers and pants. I want to see all of you when I come back.”

And God, wasn’t that laying down the challenge, Mycroft thought, as he knelt to remove his shoes and socks and stocking garters. Then he stood and unbuttoned his flies, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and sliding everything down in one smooth push. He shook them all out, folded them, and gathered it all up, piling it on top of his jacket and weskit on the bar.  He came back out and stood in the light, looking at himself.

He was too tall. Too bony at the joints, too lean in the thigh and shank, too soft at the belly, too undefined in the chest. He was a nerd; had always been a nerd; was now a middle-aged nerd losing what little allure youth had ever granted him. A laughable image, especially in this sort of play. What a nebbish he was! Pitiful. Greg would laugh, when they got seriously under way. This role belonged to the ingenue—a youth in the first flush of his manhood. Or a hero in his prime, forced into submission by the pure power of his masterful lover. Not to a plain, lusterless milk-and-water blancmanger, shivering and sorrowful, looking to be taken control of by so much glorious manliness.

Greg prowled out of the playroom, dressed in loose cotton pants under a similarly loose Asian-style wrap-top. It was too short to be a kimono, too long and with pockets, so not a hapi-coat. It didn’t matter. It was a soft, gleaming pastel, the hue impossible to determine in the faint light of the suite. Blue? Soft sage?

He padded into the sitting room and stopped, examining Mycroft in his nakedness. His hands were in his pockets. He cocked his head. “Good. That’s right. That’s what I wanted.”

Mycroft nodded, silent, unable to fully believe it to be true. But he’d obeyed.

Lestrade said, then, “So. You’re a naughty boy. Do I need to discipline you, before I reward you for being a good boy? Do you want that?”

Mycroft’s throat closed with agonizing desire. “I…” He made himself stop. He forced himself to trust. “I want that. Yes.”

Greg nodded, and jerked his chin toward the stools by the bar. “Over there. Bend over. You can lean on the seat.

Mycroft shivered and crossed over. The thick carpet tickled his bare feet. The thin skin of his thighs brushed together. He bent over, immediately feeling the vulnerability—his bare, thin arse uncovered, his body doubled over, with no way to watch Greg or guess what he was thinking as he looked at Mycroft.

He heard the other man approach, then a hand settled at the back of his head. Fingers knit into the short hair, gripping tight.

“How bad have you been?”

Bad, Mycroft thought. Bad in so many ways. Too bad to be worthy of this.

“Bad,” he croaked.

“Oh, Mike. Do you need a thrashing?”

That lit fear. A spanking he knew he could deal with—a thrashing could mean anything.

“I—don’t want to sin,” he said, unsure if Lestrade would hear the hesitation as he used the safe word.

“Nothing dangerous,” Greg murmured. “Nothing that needs more than a bit of gel and an ice pack, at worst. No serious bruising. No wounds.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes,” he said, then. “I need a thrashing.”

He felt Greg’s fingers knit tighter, the grip firm and inescapable, keeping his head down and trapped. The pull hurt—not to the point of screaming, but it made his eyes water. Then, without warning, the blow fell, matched by a loud, frightening crack of sound.

God, God, God, it stung! He yelped, and jerked, and another blow landed, keeping him off balance mentally. A third landed. It was only at the fourth Mycroft was able to deduce Greg had doubled over Mycroft’s own belt, and was using it as a short crop. The sound was mainly leather meeting leather as the layers slapped together. The pain was intense, but not dangerous.

It was fierce, though, and relentless. Greg shifted, improving his angle. The leather smacked over Mycroft’s bum, smacked his thighs—both sides and backs.

“Say you’re sorry,” he growled, letting the leather land again, fast and sharp.

Mycroft gasped, unable to wrap his mind around it at first. Then, realizing the control that gave him, he set his jaw, fighting down excited thrill. “I won’t,” he growled back.

“Shame. Bad boy.” Again the lash. He adjusted again, and the next time the belt landed, the loop was longer. It hurt more.

Mycroft whined, but didn’t give in. He was pinned, he thought. Lestrade’s hand in his hair held him down. The leather landed, and snapped, and hurt. His bare bum was at Greg’s mercy—and Greg was merciless.

The feelings roiling up were indescribable. He was safe. He was contained. He was controlled. Everything was all right, now…the desire rising up in him was all right. The hurt was just right. He could never have asked for this—not without undoing the magic that made it work. You couldn’t micromanage your own conquest.

Smack.

He was crying. He knew it—tears seeping between his lashes. Breath beginning to jerk and gasp out of him. Throat swelling and sore. Still, he didn’t surrender.

He was hard. He felt powerful and vulnerable and important and humbled and it all ran together like watercolors in the rain, and he sobbed.

“Are you a sinful boy?” Greg growled.

“No. I want to be a good boy,” Mycroft managed to gasp back, then his voice choked tight, and he sobbed again, and the belt fell on his burning cheeks and his lover kept his head pinned down and he couldn’t fight free if he tried.

Minutes later, an eternity later, he gasped, “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Oh, God, sorry…”

The lash stopped. The fingers in his hair loosened, and caressed the curve of his scalp. He heard Greg throw the belt aside. Then a broad palm caressed his burning bum. “Good lad. Good.” Then fingers slipped here and there, exploring.

Mycroft whined, and found himself flexing his bum, shifting his hips, trying to offer greater access. “Yes…”

“Good boy.” The hand left his arse. Then it returned—and a cold splort of gel landed between his cheeks. A moment later probing fingers came and touched and caressed and prodded. Greg found his anus, and ringed it with lubricant. “I’m going to teach you to be such a good boy.” He fingered Mycroft’s bum. He poked inside—a single finger.

Mycroft wailed softly.

“Don’t want it?”

Mycroft, feeling humbled by the need to say so, muttered, “I want it.”

Greg hummed to himself, and continued his exploration. His preparation. Then, without warning, something hard and rounded and loud and jittery pressed at Mycroft’s arse, and a second later he was full.

He recalled the fat round anal plug from the toy box. He blushed—and blushed harder to feel his cock swing heavy and hard beneath his belly.

The plug jiggled and shook inside him, pressing against his prostate. It made him want to wriggle and pant.

“Stand up,” Greg said. When Mycroft did, Greg took his hand. “Come along, Mike.”

Mycroft followed, head down, cock bobbing with every step. They left the sitting room and went into the playroom. Greg crossed to a wide reclining chair with multiple settings—and multiple tie-downs for bondage, if you were interested. Greg wasn’t, at least not then. He adjusted the chair, tested it, then settled into place, patting his thighs. “Climb up, Mike.”

Mycroft scrambled up onto Greg’s lap, straddling his thighs. He let the other man push him down until his bum rested firmly on Greg’s knees, the bend of the joint pushing the anal plug deeper inside. He wriggled helplessly, then, driven by the arousal as his cock lay between Greg’s thighs and the plug cycled madly inside him and his nakedness felt all too vulnerable and he folded onto Greg’s chest, gripping the cotton top tight in his fists.

“Do you want me to play with you, Mike?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

He felt Greg reach down and find his cock. “That’s a good boy. That’s a sweet man. Shhhh.”

The affection in Greg’s voice broke Mycroft open wide. “Yes,” he murmured again. The tight grip on his cock, the arm around his shoulders, the wide chest under his cheek…it was intoxicating. He needed it. He yearned for it.

“I can’t last long,” he gasped, minutes later. “I can’t…”

“Slide off,” Greg murmured, then followed, coming to stand in front of the chair. “From the front or the back?”

This time—just this time—he wanted to be owned. To be mastered. “From the back.”

“Ok. Bend over.” Mycroft heard the shift and shuffle of fabric, as he himself leaned into the chair, raising his arse high.

“You’re sure you want this?”

“Certain.”

There was a tug, and a pop, and the plug was gone—and then a smooth, hard thrust and Greg was inside him. Hands gripped his hips. The rhythm was like a jackhammer, at least in Mycroft’s aroused mind. Greg pounded into him, rested his weight on him, held him down and took him.

“Mine,” he growled. “Remember that. You’re mine.”

“Yes.”

He was Greg’s. If, in his heart, he knew his daytime self was more than capable of reclaiming his freedom, his nighttime self indulged in the ecstasy of being owned and used by someone who wanted him enough to demand he give himself up entirely. Someone who cared to use him well. To understand what he had wanted and could not ask for.

Moments later Greg drove hard, and came, shouting with it, fingers leaving bruises on the turn of Mycroft’s hip bones, hips juddering and shaking out the last of the orgasm. Mycroft let himself go, then, and shrieked his own climax into the leather upholstery of the chair—then lay, satisfied, under the weight of his lover.

“Good?” Greg’s voice was rough from shouting.

“Nggg.”

Greg chuckled. He buried his face in the nape of Mycroft’s neck, and nuzzled him tenderly. “What a good boy I have.”

“I’m a grown man,” Mycroft said, grinning to himself. “Hardly a boy.”

“My boy.”

“Well. Perhaps.”

“For certain.”

“You are a cocky bastard.”

“Sodding right I am. And you like it like that.”

Mycroft sighed to himself in contentment. “That I do. That I assuredly do.”


End file.
